Into the Mirror
by wishilivedinbooks
Summary: A series of one-shots about different characters and what they see in the Mirror of Erised.
1. Harry Potter

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

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**Harry Potter, May 3, 1998**

It was the morning after the battle. For the first time in his life, Harry Potter was free from the threat of Voldemort. That wasn't to say that there weren't a horde of Death Eaters that wanted his head on a silver platter (perhaps engraved with green snakes, just for irony) but Tom Riddle himself was no longer determined to kill him.

Because Tom Riddle was dead. So why did Harry feel more incarcerated than ever? Shouldn't he feel some sort of liberation, some sort of giddy relief at the fact that he no longer had to worry about killing Voldemort? The war was over, and for that Harry was unmistakably grateful, but the deaths of those around him were like bindings. He was imprisoned in his grief – his godson, Teddy Lupin, was now an orphan because the last Marauder, the last connection Harry had to his father, and the Auror Nymphadora Tonks were dead. George was now unfathomably alone. Colin and Dennis Creevey had died a death more noble and heroic than most adults could ever hope to achieve, as befitted true Gryffindors.

None of it should have happened. Keeping his head down, Harry backed out of the room without looking to see where he was going. He needed to escape it all – the sobs of those finding the bodies of their loved ones, the moans of pain from the wounded, the frantic shouts of people trying to locate missing friends. . .

His feet were carrying him in a random direction without conscious thought on his part, having walked these corridors countless times in the last seven years. Those seven years had changed so much for him. Harry walked past a crooked painting that covered a passageway they had often used as a shortcut to Charms. Harry remembered when he, Ron, and Hermione discovered it –

_"__Ron, we're going to be late for Charms and it's only the first week!" Hermione said in annoyance. _

_"__Well, maybe if your bloody cat hadn't scared Scabbers we'd be on time!" Ron retorted angrily. _

_"__Don't be stupid –" Hermione threw her hands up, hitting a painting with one hand and knocking the fat textbook Harry had been trying to stuff in his bag out of his hands with the other. "Oh, sorry, Harry . . . where'd it go?" _

_She was looking around in confusion; the book seemed to have disappeared. "Well now look what you've done!" said Ron. "Really, it's your fault if we're late, so don't –"_

_"_My _fault!" Hermione interrupted. _

_"__Shut up, both of you," Harry said loudly, looking closely at the painting. "Look, it's been knocked askew." He pointed at the painting, which was now almost horizontal. _

_Ron looked at it dubiously. "A secret passageway?" he asked. "Do you think it's another fake one with a dead end, or do you think it actually leads somewhere useful?" _

_"__Either way, we're already going to be late," Harry pointed out. "So it doesn't really matter if we try it out or not, does it?" _

_Hermione reached through the hole and retrieved Harry's book. "Well, come on, then," she said impatiently. _

_Ron was now staring at the old man in the painting curiously. "Harry, I think he's mute. He's been mouthing horrible curses at me for the past minute!" He looked delighted. "He's teaching me new vocabulary. I've finally got more insults to cleverly hide in my potions essays!"_

_Harry grinned and crawled into the hole. "Saying 'And the dried lacewing must be measure very carefully, as it tends to get caught in greasy things, such as long unwashed hair' isn't cleverly hiding anything, Ron."_

_Hermione, who was still furious from the previous Potions lesson, which had involved forty points docked from Gryffindor by the end of the lesson because her hair was "distracting Mr. Malfoy and therefore the reason his potion exploded all over Lavender," snorted and said, "Who knows? Maybe it'll improve Ron's potions grade if it looks like a Slytherin wrote it. After all, Goyle said in class the other day that he knew an excellent homemade shampoo solution for Snape to try. Apparently it used jasmine – kill two birds with one stone; Snape's hair and the horrible smell."_

_"__I don't think Goyle can write," Harry said truthfully, remembering the Polyjuice incident the previous year and Malfoy saying _I didn't know you could read _in surprise. _

_They reached a door, and Ron opened it, hitting Pansy Parkinson in the face. "Oops," he said cheerfully, and they went on their way to class, feeling immensely happier. _

_They arrived a minute early. _

Swallowing painfully, Harry turned away and walked on forcefully. Everywhere he looked, there was another memory – Ron and Harry frantically making up ridiculous stories for their divination homework while Hermione pretended not to be amused, the time Hermione hexed a Slytherin seventh year for tripping Neville, the time Hermione punched Malfoy, the time Ron hid behind a pillar in their fourth year out of shame at his horrid dress robes . . .

_"__You seem to be drowning twice," Hermione said helpfully. _

_"__Oh, am I?" Ron asked, frowning. "I'd better change one of them to getting trampled by a rampaging hippogriff." _

The time Snape scolded them for neglecting to study for a Potions exam:

_"__I refuse to have to listen to your inane chatter, Mr. Potter," Snape spat out through clenched teeth. "The Polyjuice potion is a very high-level potion that requires more studying than your tiny brain has ever been put through. Even Miss Granger would be hard-pressed to pass the exam about it, let alone brewing it." _

_Ron snickered, and Snape's eyebrow (which managed to look as greasy as the rest of his hair) twitched upwards. "Detention, Mr. Weasley. Five points will be taken from Gryffindor when you fail to pass the exam. Only a very talented wizard could brew the potion at your age. I wouldn't expect you to accomplish it."_

_As he turned sharply and strode off to yell at Neville, Harry leaned over to Ron. "Do you think it would finally finish him off if we told him we did it in second year?"_

The time fake-Moody turned Malfoy into a ferret . . .

Harry shivered slightly before realizing with some surprise that he was in an empty room – empty save for the mirror in front of him. His eyes widened in recognition – it was the Mirror of Erised. Was his greatest desire still the same? he wondered. After all, he had changed a lot since his first year.

He stepped forward and stared into the mirror, his eyes filling with wistful longing as he gazed at the image it depicted.

Ron stood with his hands in his pockets, leaning against lazily against the wall. Hermione was perched on an armchair in front of the fireplace, in front of Ron, with her robes discarded, her shirt unbuttoned at the top, and her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, displaying her tanned, unscarred left forearm. They both looked casual and euphoric.

All of Gryffindor House was surrounding them, and the Quidditch Team was chanting Harry's name – they had won the Cup! And under _his _captaincy! Harry recognized this scene – he caught Ginny in his arms and kissed her, hard, the sense of euphoria spreading.

He could hear the catcalls and whistles from his fellow Housemates as he pulled away and Ron gave him a half-shrug, half-grin. The Gryffindors brought out the firewhiskey and butterbeer as the sweets Fred, George, and Lee Jordan had smuggled in were spread out, and moments later the party was in full swing.

And then suddenly, Sirius was standing there, his head thrown back in wild laughter, and Remus was beside him, looking more relaxed than Harry had ever seen him during the course of the war. Moody was glaring disapprovingly, as if to say _constant vigilance_, and Tonks was laughing with Molly and Arthur, having turned her hair bright scarlet and gold in celebration (Harry couldn't help but notice that the tips were yellow and black, the Hufflepuff traitor).

Colin Creevey ran about the room, snapping pictures with his camera, and Dennis bounded up to Harry and excitedly asked for his autograph – and that was when Harry understood. His parents weren't here because they were a representation of what he wanted most when he was eleven – a family who loved him; to get to know the people who had died for him.

Now, he had a family who loved him and had been willing to die for him, and he for them, and all he wanted was to see them happy and whole and as unmarred by the war as they were in this moment. He wanted to see them as they were before the war had ravaged them and forced them all to become older than they should have been – before Hermione was tortured, Ron lost his brother, George lost his ear, Fred lost his life, Colin and Dennis lost their futures, Remus and Tonks lost the chance to be a family and raise their son, Sirius lost the chance to truly spend time with his godson, Molly's family was ripped apart and battered, Arthur was attacked, and so much more . . .

Harry felt a tear trace its way down his face, and he reached out, running his fingers over the image in the mirror. And then his shoulders straightened. His family was upstairs, and someday he would join those he had lost, but for now, he needed to be with those he still had.

At seventeen, he was able to do what he couldn't at eleven.

He turned his back on the mirror and he didn't look back.


	2. Tom Riddle

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**

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**T****om Riddle, December 25, 1943**

The sound of laughter followed him as he left the Great Hall, and Tom felt an uncontrollable rage seize him. He wanted to _kill _that girl, laughing so loudly with her friends. None of his followers were around – Nott, Malfoy, Lestrange, Goyle – they had all left to spend Christmas with their families.

The thought made his lip curl. In six days he would be eighteen, and he was nowhere near where he imagined himself to be when he first learned of the wizarding world. He remembered being at the orphanage.

When he was younger, he had shown signs of magic, and of course this terrified the pathetic Muggles around him. They avoided him, _shunned_ him as if he was inferior. He watched Muggle children getting adopted, leaving that hellhole, and yet nobody ever looked at him . . . not until he started using his abilities to his advantages. He would _force _them to see him for who he was – he was not _weak. _He was not _worthless. _

He remembered the first time he had felt truly powerful. That Muggle girl had laughed at him when he told her he could speak to the snake that had slithered onto the window. She had patronized him, calling him an "imaginative child." Was it so hard to believe that he had power? Was it so hard to believe that he could do things nobody else could?

He had whispered to the snake to attack the girl – she would remember forever that he was not some silly, pitiable child who made up fanciful stories to garner attention. The snake had done his bidding – it had struck the girl, latching onto her throat, and her strangled stream had been cut off abruptly as her gaze became glassy. The blood that seeped out of her skin was such a startling scarlet against the pale white of her skin. It was beautiful in a terrifying, cold way.

When an orphan cried after his pet frog died, Tom had thought that death was horrifying. But now he knew. He knew. Why hadn't that boy seen the beauty in it? The raw, electrifying, stunning beauty?

He felt giddy with power. He had done this. He hadn't meant for the girl to die – but what did it matter? She was just another orphan. She didn't matter. She didn't have the abilities he did. _She _was the weak one. She _deserved _to die.

From that day on, the snake was his favorite. She answered to him; she came when he called . . . and she got bigger and bigger, and he grew with her, and he hid her away until he needed to feel the power again. And when Dumbledore came and told him that he really was special, something that he had known all along – he brought her with him.

He called her Nagini, and the first thing he did was show her off to his followers in their dormitory. He was Tom Riddle, leader of the Slytherins, _parselmouth. _He was blessed with a gift Salazar himself had possessed.

And after that, nothing had happened. He was clever, powerful, and very skilled at magic, especially Dark Magic – one of the oldest kinds, the most powerful kind. He craved it; his knowledge of it grew every day. He was more powerful than them all. He was among his kind, and where were those filthy little Muggle orphans?

There were Muggles at Hogwarts, too, and it _incensed _him. What right did those inferior, weak creatures have to walk the halls of his majestic school? What right did they have to dirty his world with their filthy blood?

He would carry on Salazar Slytherin's legacy! Someday, the dark scarlet blood of the disgusting mudbloods would form rivers in his world and would be washed back to the Muggle world, where it belonged. It would rain in sheets, and his world would be cleansed. It would be glorious! He would be hailed a hero! He would have the attention he deserved.

He had found a way to do it in the library the previous night, and had posed the question earlier to Slughorn. He would make a horcrux. He would split his soul in two – he would be more than human! He would be more powerful than Merlin, more powerful than the Four Founders themselves! Few had dared venture this far into dark magic. He was better than them all. He would go farther, deeper – if he were to split himself into more than two? Three? Four? He would become more and more powerful, all the better to rid his world of the filth that blemished it.

All he had to do was take the life of an innocent. He understood that; a harsh, beautiful act with a harsh, beautiful consequence. Others feared it – he could not understand why. It was not terrible – it was something only the most Slytherin of wizards could do, and he would do it! If others could not handle such power – he would wield it, and stand before them as an example of greatness. He would do what they could not. He was being benevolent, generous – that old fool Dumbledore had to know that, and yet he refused to fall to Tom's charms! He was always suspicious of him, as if he was bad or needed to be watched. He was wary of granting Tom the honor of Head Boy, though it was rightfully his, as the best candidate in their year – and in all of Hogwarts. He was more powerful than any other.

Tom walked through a door and found himself in a room in which he had never before been. In it was only a mirror. He narrowed his eyes, wondering what it was for. It was obviously very old. What could he glean from it?

"Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi," he whispered, reading the inscription on the mirror. It was not Latin, or runic, or anything in any other language he had ever seen. He said it under his breath again, scanning the letters, and then he tilted his head and stretched his lips in a horrifying parody of a smile.

It was not the charming smile he showed teachers and other students. It was one of terrible triumph. "I show not your face but your heart's desire," he breathed. He transferred his gaze to the mirror itself and stared into it, thrilled and captivated by what he saw.

In the mirror, he stood on an altar in a world where rivulets of blood ran across the ground, and the bodies of Muggleborns were littered across a battlefield. The wizarding world was rid of mudbloods, and purebloods knelt around him, bowing in respect, awe, and fear. He was regarded as the most powerful wizard in all of history. Even the Muggles learned to fear his name; they were enslaved by his devoted followers. He was a ruler, and the people did his bidding.

No one dared shift their gaze away from him. He was at the center of all their attentions, and he had completed the noble endeavors of Salazar Slytherin.

This, he resolved, would be the beautiful future of his world. He would lead the wizarding world to this great image, and his name would be revered forever. He would create this awe-inspiring, striking, _magnificent _image that depicted a future to be called the greatest age in wizarding history.

And it was glorious.


	3. George Weasley

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**

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**George Weasley, April 1, 1999**

April Fool's Day used to be George's favorite day of the year. Not only was it the day he was born, but it was also a day when mischief-makers around the world would strike with their biggest pranks. It was a day set aside solely to celebrate the genius of such troublemakers as the brothers who had founded Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes.

The store had used to excite George to no end – the opportunity to spread mischief amongst children across the wizarding world. This was their calling – being born on the one day of the year hailing rule breakers, it was almost as if the universe was _demanding _that they give in to the thrill of mischievous fun.

This day should have been wonderful – a new release of products at the WWW, a special themed prank on behalf of the Weasley brothers themselves, and another birthday spent in celebration and honor of their heroes, the Marauders.

Instead, he was sitting alone at a table at The Three Broomsticks, trying to bury the memories under firewhiskey. Fred had always joked about being older by twelve minutes, but now George was twenty-one and his brother would be forever twenty . . .

"Ha!" George muttered, grinning at the sky. "So much for the older card, eh, Fred?"

Two brothers who were chasing each other gave the man talking to himself odd looks before they forgot all about him, delighted and giddy from the butterbeer, and George let his head drop, feeling impossibly alone in that moment.

He and his brother used to be the ones looking out at the world, sharing meaningful glances and pitying the lonely. He had always had company; always had his brother by his side no matter what he did. And now Fred was gone . . .

"Maybe a candy to turn people different colors . . .?" George mused, before realizing what he'd said and slamming his drink onto the table in disgust. That was a first-year prank, and not very funny at all. It was like with Fred gone he was no longer a prankster.

He had always been more serious than his brother, although he was every bit as much a prankster at heart. He was the quieter one, the brains behind the operation. Fred figured out the what, and George figured out the how. If Fred were sick, George would have been able to come up with a brilliant plan – he _had _been the one to suggest leaving school in the middle of that awful toad's Defense O.W.L., after all.

But Fred wasn't sick. He was gone, and probably furious at his brother for being utterly useless at pranking without him. Watching the two brothers, George's head snapped up. He knew what he needed to do. He needed to break a rule. He needed to bring a smile to someone's face . . . perhaps his own would be enough.

Springing to his feet, all of a sudden far more lucid than the amount of firewhiskey he had drunk warranted, George headed off in the direction of the Shrieking Shack. He would sneak back into Hogwarts and leave behind a message.

As he walked, a little girl bounded up to him and boldly asked, "Where'd your other ear go?"

"Daria!" her mother scolded, looking horrified. She glanced up at George. "I'm terribly sorry, sir. I haven't told her about the war and those who fought in it yet."

George tried to smile, but found that he couldn't._ It's so people can differentiate between the two of us, _Fred would have said. _Otherwise, really the only difference between us is that I'm better looking._ (Although clearly he wasn't).

Several minutes later, George was startled to find himself in the dungeons of Hogwarts. He hadn't been there since the battle. Brushing his fingers across the old walls, George started to wander aimlessly, fighting back the memories.

_"__You'll be fine," George promised, ruffling Ginny's hair. "You've got Gryffindor blood, don't worry. You'll slay that dragon without any trouble." _

_"__A dragon?" Ginny asked, wide-eyed. _

_"__Don't worry," Fred assured her. "The last person to die was a Slytherin, and nobody missed them. No true Gryffindor has died in ages!" _

When Oliver told them about their new Seeker.

_"__A first year?" Fred asked in astonishment. "And _McGonagall _appointed him?" _

_"__Yeah," Oliver answered, grinning broadly, "and he flies like a bloody Horntail! It's Harry Potter." _

_"__Our brother's friends with him," George said with interest. "We met him at the station." _

_"__Well, people will want his autograph someday," Oliver breathed reverently. "He'll be the youngest Seeker in over a century! It's absolutely brilliant! Slytherin won't know what hit them." _

George bumped into something and staggered back, rubbing his forehead in pain. He was standing in front of a mirror.

He saw his own face staring back at him, but it was grinning, had a whole ear, and there were certain things that someone who didn't know him extremely well wouldn't pick up on . . . "Freddie?" he whispered, his breath catching.

Fred raised his eyebrows at him and grinned. "Fred . . ." said George again, his voice hoarse. His eyes never left his twin's face. Swallowing hard, he reached out, his fingers brushing over Fred's face. "I know," he told the reflection, laughing slightly. "I'm stroking your face. Very creepy."

He let his hand fall. "We faced some pretty horrible things in the war," he said softly. "I honestly thought Ron might die for a while there . . . or Harry, who's just as much a brother to us . . . or even Hermione. People were dying all around us, and there were moments when even we couldn't smile. But I always had you. And now you're gone and I don't know what to do . . ."

If there was one thing he and Fred had always lived by, it was to laugh throughout everything. He was quickly forgetting what real laughter sounded like. When Fred had died, something of himself had died with it, and he would never be the same.

"I need you here, Fred," George said helplessly, sounding very young and very old at the same time. "Please. _Please._" He was begging now, his voice broken and lifeless. "Please come back. I . . ."

He fell to his knees in front of the mirror, tearing his eyes away from the image of his brother and letting out a ragged sob, his shoulders shaking and his entire body wracked with the force of his grief.

He couldn't live like this. He didn't _want _to live like this. How far he had fallen from the boy he once was – the George Weasley who found a way to laugh in the face of utter despair. The George Weasley whose first reaction after having his ear cursed off was to grin at his brother and make a horrible joke.

That George Weasley had died with Fred, and the shell of a man he left behind was left wondering if he was worth it – his existence meant nothing to him anymore. The one thing that had mattered to him more than anything else in the world was his brother.

George felt a sudden inexplicable anger at Fred for leaving him behind. He should be there to grin at him and propose a prank to cheer George up. He should be there to throw his arm around George's shoulder and comfort him with the fact that the world might be going to hell, but he still had a picture of Draco Malfoy as a ferret. He should be there . . . and he wasn't.

He wasn't.

The minutes ticked by, and time passed, and the world went spinning on as one man broke down and wept the tears of a man who was completely alone. Somewhere far away, a dead man watched in agony.

When George finally raised his head, the Fred in the mirror had his hand held out. He wished desperately that he could take it. Rising, he wiped his tears away and dried his robes, feeling exhausted and strangely rejuvenated at the same time. That had been almost cathartic.

He allowed himself the roguish grin that hadn't crossed his face in nearly a year. "By the way, I ran into Angelina a while ago. She's playing professionally now, but she's single . . . I'll name our son after you. Happy birthday, Fred."

Feeling much better, he walked out of the room.

He would never be the same again.

But maybe he'd be all right.

When he left the room, George was smiling.


	4. Minerva McGonagall

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**

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**Minerva McGonagall, December 2, 1956**

Minerva closed her eyes. She was back at Hogwarts – back at the castle that had allowed her an escape from the home that had unintentionally incarcerated her. At home, she had to hide who she truly was – her own father saw it as an inconvenience and something _other_, like a piercing she had rebelliously gotten. She had spent her whole life suppressing it . . . but then she came to Hogwarts . . . and all of a sudden, she was top of her classes. Her magic was not something unwanted, something _other. _It was a skill she was praised for; something that was as wholly hers as her Gryffindor heart.

She belonged somewhere. She was Minerva McGonagall, talented Gryffindor Chaser and star player; Minerva McGonagall, Prefect and Head Girl in her turn. She was Minerva McGonagall, popular, talented, and top of her class – she had gotten all Outstandings in both her O.W.L.s and her N.E.W.T.s. She had found friends, and learned that she was daring and noble and brave, and a force to reckon with when she had something to fight for.

Her earliest truly happy memories were at Hogwarts.

_"__How did it feel?" sneered the Slytherin, arching a haughty brow at her. Minerva positively hated him. He was arrogant – good-looking, intelligent, and pure-blooded, and he knew it. Even worse, he exploited it – always throwing around his family's status and influence, or hiding his hideous personality behind that undeniable charisma. "Twenty points for Gryffindor with that demonstration, yeah? Trying to get ahead in points so you won't be too far behind when Slytherin kicks your sorry arses on the pitch this weekend?" _

_Minerva curled her hand into a fist. He didn't fail to notice. Before she could say a word, he laughed, "Going to hit me, Minerva?" _

_Staring straight into his eyes, she walked closer until she was inches away from him. "No," she said coolly. "I'll save that for the Quidditch pitch." _

_She caught the flash of Montague's crooked grin as she turned and walked away. _

Her brother had commented on the difference in her when she had come back after first year, confident and assured of her abilities.

_"__You're different," said Malcolm, regarding her shrewdly. He was, she thought, a true Ravenclaw. _

_"__Yeah," she said, "and I'm glad. Hogwarts will free you, Malcom. You'll love it." _

And he had. Though both her little brothers had been sorted into Ravenclaw, Hogwarts had become a sanctuary to them all. Minerva had never failed to notice her mother's envious glances whenever they left for Hogwarts or the longing in her eyes when Minerva turned seventeen and performed magic in front of her.

Her mother may have loved her father, but he tethered her too tightly for her to be truly happy. The wizarding world was where a witch belonged, and suppressing it had made her miserable. It was for this reason that Minerva had left Dougal.

_Dougal. _His name still hurt. She had never thought it was possible to miss a person this much, but after nearly a year, she was still as hopelessly in love with him as she had been when she left him. She had thought that she would regret it forever if she ended up like her mother, but she wasn't sure this regret was any better . . .

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn't notice the mirror in front of her. Her face stared back at her, and it struck her how much she had changed since she graduated Hogwarts. She had once been on top of the world with all her hopes and dreams laid out ahead of her in a glorious future.

And now, here she stood, escaping from a job she hated with those beautiful dreams snuffed out like a candle in the dark. Her eyes no longer shone with the promise of greatness and the assurance that she could do anything. Her posture was as regal as ever, but as young as she looked, she felt as if her youth had vanished. She was by no means hopeless; it wasn't as if she had nothing . . . but somehow, the ache in her heart intensified at the thought of who she had been.

She felt like she had that day when she woke up in the hospital wing in horrible pain to find that Gryffindor had lost the House Cup to Slytherin, and her last year of Quidditch, which should have ended in glory, had ended instead with a loss.

Perhaps that was her problem, she thought, looking at the tears that had streaked their way unbidden down her face. She had so much hope for the future that she didn't even stop to consider failure until it hit her like a bludger.

Suddenly, before her eyes, her face faded and was replaced with _his _face. He was laughing, his head thrown back in the careless gesture that was so familiar to her. "Doug," she whispered, reaching a hand out, and the memories came flooding back:

_"__I've never seen a person look so wistful," said a pleasant voice, and Minerva turned in surprise to find a boy leaning against a tree. He was tall and lanky, with tousled brown hair, dark eyes alight with amusement, and a charming grin. He was obviously a Muggle. _

_"__I'm leaving," she told him, not sure why she was explaining herself to him, "and I can't decide if I'm sad or happy about it." _

_"__Where are you going?" he asked. _

_She shrugged. "I don't know. Forward. I'm leaving behind the best years of my life, but I'm only going up from here. I've got a lot of promise." _

_"__Sounds wonderful," he said, dropping down beside her. "What are you doing on my father's property?" _

_Minerva looked at him in surprise. "Your father's property?" she repeated, looking around. She'd gone farther than she'd realized. "I didn't mean to come out this far. I – my family's home is over there." She pointed in the general direction of their home. _

_"__Your family's home?" he asked curiously. _

_She turned to look at him. "Maybe that's why I'm sad," she said. "I've left my home behind, too." _

_"__Yeah? What was it like?" He seemed like he genuinely wanted to know, as if handsome young men like him had nothing better to do than talk to girls they'd never seen before who had accidentally wandered onto their fathers' properties. _

_"__It was . . . indescribable," she breathed, looking off into the horizon. The evening breeze ruffled her hair, and the setting sun cast a warm golden glow on their surroundings. "It was where I grew up. It was where I met my best friends, had my first failures and successes and all the memories worth remembering, and it was where I realized what I wanted to do and who I wanted to be. I learned so much more than what was it the textbooks, and I gained so much more than an education there."_

_He had been looking at her with something like awe, although she didn't notice, but it quickly turned to disbelief. "It was a school?" he asked. _

_"__It was my home," she corrected, still staring off into the distance. "It was much more than a school. I was sent to boarding school at the age of eleven – and it introduced me to another world, you could say. I was unrestrained there. I was different and the same all at the same time, and I – I _miss _it." Her voice got fierce at the end._

_At his silence, she turned to him in alarm. "Bloody –" She cut herself off before she could say "Merlin." Looking at him apologetically, she amended, "I probably sounded like a nostalgic old lady – or a loon." _

_If he had looked interested before, his eyes were positively _brimming _with curiosity now. "No," he said, to her surprise. "You sound like someone who has had the privilege of being part of something amazing and foreign and life-changing. Besides –" and he was grinning now – "you're much too pretty to be confused with a nostalgic old lady. I would know; my grandmother is one of those."_

_She couldn't help it – she laughed. "What about you, then?" she challenged. "Anything interesting about you?" _

_"__I'm just a farmer's son," he said modestly, grinning. "Of course, I'm sure I was a prince in another life." _

_"__I'm sure you were," she agreed dubiously. _

_He gave her an affronted look. "I was!" he protested. "What am I missing? I've got good looks, intelligence, a brilliant sense of humor –"_

_"__You're right," she said at that. "You're hilarious." _

_His eyes narrowed as he registered the veiled, though mild, insult. "I'm wounded," he told her. "You'll have to make up for it." _

_"__Whatever you wish, your highness." She arched her eyebrows, daring him to come up with something good. _

_His hazel eyes lit up mischievously. "How good is your aim?" _

_She grinned confidently. "Excellent. Better than yours, I bet." Smart as she was, she didn't learn until much older to trust her instincts and not go making foolhardy claims that would get her into trouble someday. She was a typical young Gryffindor. _

_His eyebrows rose incredulously. "_Better _than me? I wouldn't go around making claims I can't support," he warned, smirking slightly when she looked at him defiantly. She was Gryffindor's star Chaser! Who did this boy think he was? _

_He led her to a cluster of tall trees deeper on his father's property. "See those fruit?" he asked, pointing to small scarlet apples. "They're too high up to reach by jumping. Knock them down with a stone, and you'll taste the best apples you've ever had." _

_"__I bet I can knock down more than you," she declared, watching as a cocky expression settled over his face. _

_"__Sorry," he told her, "but I don't go easy on people." And he took a smooth stone from the ground and deftly threw it. It hit a fruit right at the branch, and he caught it out of the air, holding it up for her inspection. "Not a bruise on it." He bit into it, closing his eyes as the juice escaped the fruit. He swallowed and opened his eyes a moment later. "You don't know what you're missing." _

_Determined not to let him show her up, she took the stone from his hand, their fingers brushing. Instincts she had honed after years of playing for Gryffindor took over, and a dark red apple fell from its branch. She snatched it gracefully out of the air and grinned. The apples seemed to be rooting for her – they came in Gryffindor colors. _

_Deliberately, she turned to the boy and sank her teeth into the apple, her eyes widening as the flesh exploded inside her mouth, making her cheeks hurt. "Ah!" she gasped. It _was _the best apple she had ever had. _

_"__Told you," he said, regarding her thoughtfully. "Where did you learn to throw and catch like that?" _

_"__At home," she answered, and he understood what she meant. _

_"__Well," said the boy, "shall we finish that competition?" Minerva looked up at the trees, wishing she wasn't wearing Muggle clothes – a knee-length dark blue dress that wasn't nearly as comfortable as her robes were. In answer, she offered him the stone again before picking out one of her own. _

_They spent nearly two hours standing there, laughing and talking and eating so many apples it was a wonder they hadn't gotten sick of them. The sky had turned dark by the time either of them noticed the time, and the pair sported brilliant smiles. _

_"__So who won that competition?" she asked as he walked her back home. _

_He shrugged. "Does it matter?" _

_She stared at him incredulously. "Well then what was the whole point of that?" she demanded. _

_"__You look a lot happier than you did," he said, and Minerva stared at him for several long seconds – at the wind, gently tousling his hair, and his easy, charming grin, and his gorgeous hazel eyes, and the way he had rolled the sleeves of his shirt up to the elbow and had shoved his hands into his pockets. Everything about him screamed casual and unconcerned, and yet he had dedicated over two hours to making her smile. _

_"__What's your name?" he asked suddenly, breaking into her thoughts, and she felt a small flutter in her stomach, the sort she got before a Quidditch match. _

_"__Minerva," she said. "Minerva McGonagall." _

_He smiled. "It's nice to meet you, Minerva McGonagall." _

_He left her on the front steps of her home with her spirits lifted and a smile on her face. _

_His name was Dougal McGregor. _

* * *

_Nearly a year later, she was hopelessly in love with him. She had learned so much more about him in that time – he was intelligent, always had a clever comment ready, and had a temper as even as hers was fiery. When he did feel strongly about something, though, it was with a blazing passion that he expressed it – his hazel eyes would light up in a way that thrilled her, he would gesture wildly with his hands, and his brow would furrow in deep focus. He hated blueberries and all food involving blueberries with a fiery passion, and he dumped more sugar in his tea than most people probably had in a year. When he grinned, he dimpled adorably, and when they fought, he would either apologize or tell her bluntly it was her fault, but he would always explain why he thought so. Minerva didn't think she'd ever loved anyone as much as she loved him. _

_And then one day, they were standing on a ploughed field, and they both had dirt on their hands (and, she suspected, her face) when he turned to her abruptly. Holding her gaze as he withdrew something from his pocket, he knelt in the dirt and took her hand and said, "Minerva McGonagall, when we met, our first conversation was you telling me about your boarding school, the one you left behind. And I'd never met you before, but all I could do was sit there and stare in amazement as you came alive, lost in your own world and obviously thinking of something absolutely incredible. Yet at the same time, you looked heartbroken, and I couldn't help wanting to see you truly happy – to see you come alive like that again. That night, I made you smile, and it was quite possibly the most beautiful thing I've _ever _seen. All I've wanted since that night is to make you smile like that again . . . and again . . . and again, forever." He met her gaze earnestly, and she saw that his eyes were alight in that way she loved. _

_"__Marry me, Minerva," he said, his eyes shining. "I love you. Marry me." _

_She had never felt happier in her life – not when she arrived at Hogwarts, not when she won her first Quidditch match, and not when she was made Head Girl. Wordlessly, she nodded, before pulling him up and throwing her arms around him, kissing him hard. _

_He pulled back, sliding the ring onto her finger, and whispered, "It was my grandmother's." _

_She grinned at him, running her hands through his hair. "The nostalgic one?" _

_"__The very same," he answered, returning her grin. _

_"__I love you," she told him, as he traced a tear off her face. "I love you so much it's ridiculous." _

_"__Well, I gathered that," he said, his grin broadening. "I doubt you'd have said yes if you didn't." Ignoring her narrowed eyes, he added, "Besides, who wouldn't?" _

_She hit him on the back of the head. "Must you be such a prat?" she complained, although she couldn't stop grinning like an idiot._

_He laughed, pulling her close and kissing her again. _

_Hours later, Minerva was fingering the ring on her finger in a daze. She was getting married! To Doug! She was going to spend the rest of her life with the wonderful idiot. Her mother was going to be . . . _

_"__Furious," she whispered in horror, snapping out of her daze. Her mother had married a Muggle man out of love, and it had made her miserable. Even after she told him, she had to keep her wand locked away. She had been an exceptional witch, and she had given up a bright future for love . . . and it had cost her. _

_Her mother loved her father; any fool could see that, but it had cost her. She would never stand to see the same thing happen to her daughter. _

_And even if she was all right with it, did Minerva really want that? Was she willing to give up all the hopes she had when she graduated? Was she ready to give up the one thing that had set her free after only seven years? She brought out her wand and stared down at it. Could she turn her back on those seven precious years and return to the life she'd known before Hogwarts?_

_She imagined the sound of her wand snapping and flinched, and in that moment she knew. She couldn't do it. She couldn't give up her magic; she couldn't turn into her mother; she couldn't marry Douglas McGregor. She couldn't. _

_"__I can't," she said aloud, desperately, as if somehow the words would change and become untrue. If she broke the Statute of Secrecy and told him, she would lose her job . . . the same job she had dreamed about when she graduated. The same job that represented seven years of hard work and determination. She would be tearing her ambitions up and tossing them aside, and she _couldn't do it.

_Her gaze flickered between the ring on her hand and the wand in her other. "No . . ." she said hoarsely, feeling tears spill down her face. She began to back away from the house before breaking into a blind run. Halfway through, she stopped, realizing that she was headed for Doug's house – where she always went when she was upset. He would hold her in his arms, wipe her tears away, comfort her, and somehow always manage to make her feel better – but he couldn't now. Not this time. _

_Backing up again, Minerva turned and ran back the way she had come. She spent that night outside, shivering and cold and utterly miserable, her eyes red and swollen from her tears and lack of sleep. The sun began to rise, a tiny sliver of gold in the sky, and she found that she no longer had any tears to shed. _

_She was utterly exhausted. _

_Closing her eyes, she stood and let her feet carry her to where she wanted to go. She had walked this path often enough to be able to do it blindly, without conscious thought. She paused at the edge of the trees, watching him for a few moments. _

_He was sitting on his front steps, staring at the sun with a happier expression than she'd ever seen on his face. She inhaled sharply – she couldn't do this – couldn't tell the man she loved that she couldn't marry him. She turned to go, but he caught the flash of her black hair and called, "M –" _

_He broke off abruptly as she turned and he took in her appearance, his grin vanishing. "What's wrong?" he asked gently, standing up. The concern was evident in his voice, and she resisted the urge to back away as he approached. He reached out and smoothed her hair back carefully, his brow furrowing. "Minerva? Tell me what's wro–"_

_"__I can't marry you," she blurted out. _

_His hand fell away, and he stepped back, staring at her. "What?" _

_"__I – I can't marry you," she repeated, not meeting his gaze. When he didn't respond, she looked up at him tentatively, flinching when she saw the mix of hurt, horror, and shock on his face. "Doug, say something –"_

_"__Why not?" he interrupted harshly, staring at her. She didn't answer. "_Why not?" _he repeated, his voice growing louder in frustration. "You said yes yesterday! You were ecstatic; I _know _you love me, Minerva! So what changed? What _bloody _stupid reason could you possibly have to take it all back now?" _

_She avoided his gaze again, staring at the ground. "I – I just –" _

_"__You just _what, dammit?" _he shouted, running his hands through his hair and gesturing wildly. She flinched, and his expression softened. He stepped forward again, tucking her hair behind her ear and holding her gently. "What is it? What happened?" _

_She hated herself in that moment. She had never hated herself more. "Nothing's happened, Doug. I just can't marry you." She stared into his eyes, feeling his broken gaze pierce her. His eyes, usually sparkling with light, looked utterly dead, and she felt as if someone was stabbing her in the heart repeatedly. _

_She'd deserve it if someone were. _

_"__You know I want to go to London," she said, forcing her voice not to quaver. She barely succeeded. "I've got a brilliant job there, and my whole life ahead of me – and I can't be saddled to someone. You know how my mother is, Doug. I can't let that happen to me." _

_He stepped away from her in disgust, looking at her as if she was a stranger. "'Saddled to someone?'" he repeated scathingly. "I'm sorry. I wasn't aware marrying me would be such a burden." _

_She looked at him pleadingly. "Doug, I –"_

_"__No!" he snapped. He looked at her, hard. "Are you sure you want to do this? Because if you say yes, there's no going back. You _will _regret it forever if you don't make the right choice, so think carefully. I love you, Minerva, and I know you love me, and you and I both know that we have something that could last forever. So tell me – do you really want to do this?" _

No. _"Yes," she whispered, almost inaudibly. _

_At that, his expression hardened. There was a devastated, dead look in his eyes, but the rest of him was so cold she thought she could get frostbite from it. He'd never looked at her like that before. _

_She'd never seen him look at _anyone _like that before. _

_"__Goodbye, Minerva," he said coldly, and without waiting for her to respond, he turned his back on her and walked to his house. He paused in the doorway, without looking back. "Keep the ring." _

_And then he was gone. _

_Three days later, Minerva went to London. But from that day forward, she was miserable, and she never loved her job again. He had been right – _

_She would regret it forever. _

The tears were flowing freely now. Her shoulder's shook with silent sobs and she stared into the mirror. The Dougal in the mirror turned and smiled as she appeared, eating an apple, his ring on her hand and a book in the other hand.

She sat in his lap, grinning at him, and he wrapped his arms around her as they flipped open to a page – and to her astonishment, it was an album, and in it were wizarding pictures – they were moving, blurs of color against a white background.

Her breath caught when she noticed what was in the photograph – it was her holding up the Quidditch Cup amidst the cheers of her fellow Gryffindors, hoisted up by the rest of the team.

And that was when she understood. _Erised stra ehru oyt ube cafru oyt on wohsi._ Her greatest desire was to be rid of her greatest regrets.

Her hand went to the ring at her throat, the one she always wore around her neck on a golden chain.

How foolish she had been.


	5. Draco Malfoy

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

* * *

**Draco Malfoy, February 16, 1997**

Draco didn't recognize his own tear-streaked face when he looked in the mirror. When he was younger, he had known exactly who he was – he was the young Malfoy heir, a cocky little git, and Potter's rival. He had been adored by his parents, given anything a boy could possibly want, no matter how expensive, and had had a circle of adoring friends.

Somewhere along the line, he had grown up, and he didn't know if he liked who he was becoming. He was fairly sure that nobody else did, either, but somehow that had stopped mattering. He didn't know when it had happened, but at some point the connection between himself and who he had been had been utterly mangled.

His father, for one. Lucius Malfoy's word had once been law. Now, he had lost all respect for his father. That man had no morals – no sense of humanity. Draco had met many people who were despicable, himself included, but at their very core they were not inherently bad people. Lucius may not have been evil, but there was no doubting that he was bad to the core.

_"__Draco, you must earn back the family honor," Lucius ordered coldly, glaring at his son. "No matter what he asks of you, you will do it, and do it well. You are nothing but his servant. Don't let your pride or foolish ideals get in the way of doing his bidding." _

_Shockingly, Draco found himself looking at his father with disgust. He hadn't looked at another human like this before – not Potter, not Weasley, not Granger; not even the Dark Lord himself. _

You _are his servant, Father. Never me. _

_Draco held the words back, nodding once instead. He saw his mother clench her jaw furiously and narrow her eyes at Lucius, and he felt scared. What was happening to them? Draco had caught flashes of it before, but this was the first time that he truly saw Narcissa Malfoy for what she was – a Black. _

_He used to think that he and his mother would be nothing without his father. Now he saw the truth – his father would be nothing without them. He thought of them as pawns, pieces to use to his advantage in the eternal game of chess that was a pureblood's life. _

_What he failed to see, Draco thought, was that he was no longer a player. _

Then there was Potter.

He had always envied the Boy-Who-Bloody-Wouldn't-Die, but it was for reasons far different from what they had been that he did now. When he was younger, Potter represented everything Draco should've had but didn't.

Potter had fame, fortune, and the adoration of the majority of the wizarding world – and he got to have genuine friends, not people who gave their allegiance to the highest bidder. Draco had fortune and the adoration of his Slytherin peers and the pureblood wizarding community – but his family was just as old and influential as the Potters were, _and _they were a Slytherin family!

Then there was the jealousy of Potter's talents – he was a disgustingly skilled wizard, having been able to produce a full-bodied Patronus since _third year_. Draco still couldn't manage a Patronus, although he privately thought that was due to the lack of a truly happy memory. Potter was also quite possibly the most skilled Seeker to have ever walked the halls of Hogwarts, and he played for _Gryffindor_ – of all bloody Houses, he had to be of Slytherin's rival House? Why couldn't he be a bloody Hufflepuff? And possibly the most disconcerting of all, Potter was a stunning duelist, all puns aside. Draco was fairly well-versed in the Dark Arts himself, and a good enough duelist to keep himself alive in a fight, but he couldn't compete with Potter.

And of course, Potter's best mates . . . . Many people thought privately that Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger could be interchanged with any other two wizards, and the result would still be the same. Draco had observed them enough to know this wasn't true. Potter needed Weasley's strategic mind and Granger's logical one. All three of them needed the others' unfailing loyalty and love, and alone they were all formidable, but together, they were icons of the side Draco was fighting against. He didn't think of their rivalry as between himself and Potter, but as one between himself and the Golden Trio. They came together – you reckoned with one, you dealt with the other two.

Draco didn't have that. Crabbe and Goyle didn't complement him in any way. Perhaps, after spending so much time together, they knew each other, but in the end, Draco was alone.

The thing he envied the most, though, was that Potter knew what he stood for. He had always known what he was meant to fight for, and he had always _believed _in that cause. Through all the rules the three Gryffindors had broken throughout the years; through all the detentions they had served, dangers they had faced, and challenges they had weathered, they had had one reason for doing what they did, and that was because they believed they should.

Draco knew where he was meant to be fighting – on the Dark side, for the Dark Lord, with the Dark Mark on his arm. A little secret nobody else knew but his mother might have guessed; when Draco got the Mark that declared him a Death Eater, he had suppressed the violent urge to claw it off with his nails.

He had grown up with the teachings of blood prejudice; and he still believed it. He thought sometimes that people like Potter didn't understand the originations of blood purism – they weren't all inherently evil. They had been taught to think that way, and they did, and even then, there were many reasons the theory existed and many events leading up to the formation of it.

What he had acquired, however, was a certain sense of respect for Muggleborns like Granger. He wasn't sure when it had crept up on him, but sometime within the last year a struggle was born within him – did they deserve to die, and could he stand to be the one to kill them?

It warred within him with a vicious vengeance. He truly hated everyone in that moment, including himself. He was tired of the world and of life and of every damn human being in the world, wizard or not. Death would be a mercy if not for the fact that he wanted to live for his mother. Some selfish part of him still hoped that life would turn out all right in the end and that he and his mother would escape unscathed.

Narcissa Malfoy did not want her son to become a Death Eater.

Draco Malfoy became a Death Eater to protect his mother.

Letting out a sudden strangled scream, he slammed his fist into the stone wall, hissing in pain as his knuckles split open and blood spilled out onto the floor. He couldn't go through with the Dark Lord's mission – he would fail his family . . . if only he had the courage to do so.

What he really wanted was to leave and never return. There was no place Voldemort couldn't hunt him down. The best case scenario would be if he could become a spy for Dumbledore. But he was too much of a coward to do that, too.

_Kill Dumbledore. _

Kill_ Dumbledore. _

_Kill _Dumbledore.

_The words echoed in his head long after leaving the meeting, but no matter how many times he went over them, they didn't make sense. How could he kill anyone? And how could anyone kill Dumbledore? _

_He had met his father's gaze. Lucius's grey eyes pierced him and there was a furious gleam in them. Draco felt sick, although he didn't know why it surprised him. His own father wanted him to become a murderer to please a man who was long past redemption. _

_He dragged his gaze to meet his mother's. Her dark eyes were cold and as furious as his father's had been, but the fury was directed at the Dark Lord. Clenching his jaw, Draco noted the grim acceptance in her expression – she knew he would fail, and she was already calculating. _

_Draco had already begun calculating, too. The moment he was ordered to find a way for the Death Eaters to enter Hogwarts undetected, his mind had begun devising a way. He had once read something . . . he would visit Knockturn Alley later. _

_The difficult part would be finding a way out of his predicament or becoming his father. _

_He would _never _be his father. _

With a sudden flash of rage, Draco spun and savagely kicked the door open, storming out. He didn't know where he was going, but he had to go _somewhere. _He had endless energy to burn up and he didn't know what to do with it.

If someone saw him at that moment, they might not have recognized him. His hair was utterly disheveled, his shirt was untucked and rumpled, his tie was haphazardly slanted and loosened around the collar, and his fists were clenched in a display of un-collectedness uncharacteristic to members of his House.

He stopped suddenly, raking his hands through his hair and _shaking _with the intensity of it all. He was filled with fury, and hatred, and disgust, and absolute hopelessness. He looked across the room with scathing contempt – he was in a room with another damned mirror.

He approached the mirror, intending to shatter it – his thoughts were so violent and disturbing these days that it frightened him, and yet he couldn't muster up the coldness to kill Albus Dumbledore.

And then he stopped cold, shaking so hard he dropped his wand. The face staring back at him in the mirror was not his narrow, pale, platinum-haired, grey-eyed visage. It was tanned and bespectacled, sporting extraordinarily messy black hair and intense green eyes.

It was Potter's face.

"What is this?" he snarled, breathing hard. Was this a mirror that showed one's rival, perhaps? His eyes scanned the mirror and he caught the gilded words engraved in the edge of the mirror and knew it was not true.

His breath came even harsher as he stared at the horrifying truth in front of him. What he wanted most in the world was to be in Potter's place – with his family as safe as one could be when fighting a war, and friends and loved ones all around him, and a clear path to victory.

He wanted to be the one to cast the curse that killed Voldemort.

He wanted to be the one to see Death Eaters like his father in Azkaban and people like his mother pardoned.

He wanted to be the one the wizarding world loved; idolized; revered.

He wanted to be the one with Dumbledore's protection, not the one meant to kill Dumbledore.

He wanted everything Potter had.

Draco didn't smash the mirror. He turned on his heel and walked out the room, feeling the emotions battle within him in a raging and violent turmoil, his thoughts getting progressively darker in one half of him while the other looked on in horror and helpless denial.

Perhaps this was the lowest he would ever get, but he had gone far enough to have descended into hell.

Perhaps he would venture deeper if he killed Albus Dumbledore.

A sudden laugh burst forth from his lips, foreign and terrifying and cold. Still laughing, Draco headed back to the Quidditch game.


	6. Remus Lupin

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**

* * *

**Remus Lupin, June 30, 1997**

Sneaking in wasn't hard for Remus. He was, after all, a Marauder – sneaking in to any place was something he was more suited to than most people, and he had snuck around Hogwarts so often when he was young that it was second nature to him.

What he wasn't used to was sneaking in alone. It didn't seem right. Somehow, the fact that the other Marauders weren't with him made everything lose its thrill – the deaths of James and Sirius weighed on him like an anvil, creating a sharp pain in his chest. He was the last true Marauder.

Glancing at his watch, Remus looked around the dungeon. His meeting with Minerva hadn't lasted as long as he expected, and his portkey in Hogsmeade wasn't scheduled to leave for a while. Exhaling slowly, Remus pushed himself off the wall and began to wander aimlessly.

There was an ashy black mark lining the top of one of the corridors – sometime in their first year, the four of them had tried to sneak a cauldron of Remus and Pet – Pettigrew's potion away after they found out it was highly explosive. They had gotten as far as the corridor when Peter nearly dropped it. He had cast a levitating charm on the cauldron to catch it, but had messed up in his haste and caused some of the contents of the potion to sizzle and splatter against the ceiling, causing a miniature explosion.

They had run before Slughorn could come to investigate, but had managed to salvage the rest of the explosive potion and had sold some to Dorcas Meadowes, who wouldn't say what she needed it for, at a very good price. Remus had bought James's birthday present with the money.

Remus caught his breath as he found an old classroom on the third floor – that had been where James, Sirius, and Peter confronted him about what he was.

He passed the empty History of Magic classroom and found more recent memories flashing through his mind – teaching Harry the Patronus Charm.

_"__Here – you've earned a drink – something from The Three Broomsticks," Remus told Harry, pulling two bottles out of his briefcase. "You won't have tried it before –"_

_"__Butterbeer!" Harry interrupted, his face lighting up. "Yeah, I like that stuff!" _

_Remus raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh – Ron and Hermione brought me some back from Hogsmeade," Harry said hastily, standing very still – and Remus knew he was lying. James had had the same tell – when he lied, it was too forced, too casual, and only years of practice had made him an eventual masterful liar. _

_"__I see," Remus said suspiciously, regarding the boy in front of him. Harry and his friends were every bit as close as the Marauders had been . . . Remus clenched his jaw at the thought. _Had _been. _

_He wouldn't be surprised if Harry was sneaking into Hogsmeade. It was what they would have done. _

His memory flashed forward a little, to the time he caught Snape caught Harry with the Map. He remembered hiding his shock at the fact that it was in Harry's possession – thought it did explain quite a lot. The prank on Draco Malfoy – it was something they would have done, too; Harry's rivalry with the Slytherin was a lot like their relationship with Snape had been.

Then Ron came hurtling into Snape's office, lying to get him out of trouble, and Remus was struck with a different set of wild boys, the messy-haired boy's best mate hurtling into an office to get him out of trouble . . . three Gryffindors in a huddle, throwing their heads back and laughing . . . flashes of a snitch, the light glinting off a pair of glasses . . . the sound of gleeful shouts and laughter and unrestrained carefreeness as four boys chased each other through the corridors . . .

Memories from another time, with another set of people – and Remus was struck by how the past mirrored the present and wondered if the future would mirror it, too.

He remembered walking in on Harry and Ginny once over the summer, just sitting and talking, and thinking that Lily and James were back in front of him.

He drew in a sharp breath, turning into an empty classroom and closing his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw a mirror – and he recognized it. The Mirror of Erised. He knew what he would see – but the image it showed was unexpected and agonizing, like a thousand knives trying to claw their way out of him from the inside.

Peter was nowhere in sight – Remus had been the one to try and get the other two to accept the boy who had followed them around, and he had repaid them by tearing apart their friendship in the last months of James's life and betraying them to a fate they had never thought they would have to face.

After all this time, Remus couldn't find it in himself to feel hurt. All he felt was disgust and hatred and a rage that had not been tempered by time. Peter was weak, yes, but the Marauders had always thought that their friendship was strong enough to endure anything.

Instead, James sat leaning against a tree, his arm around Lily as he grinned at Sirius and Remus. They were by the lake, enjoying themselves for once – there was no sign of tension in their postures and expressions; no sign that Voldemort was rising, no sign that things were changing; no sign that they would have to leave the haven that had held the best years of their lives.

There was no sign of the moon.

Remus's eyes and throat burned with unshed tears. He missed them so much it _ached. _If only their last moments together had not been twisted and ravaged by war. If only he had not allowed stupid emotions to dictate his actions, if only he had – _carpe diem. _It was something James had always said, and Remus – he couldn't put into words what he was feeling, only – he needed –

Carpe diem.

If he was to die in this war, he wouldn't leave the world wishing for death to claim him. That was a death unfit for the last true Marauder. It would almost be a betrayal of James and Sirius; that he did not fight until the end.

If he was to die, he would die wanting to live.

For the first time since entering the school again, he was struck with flashes of the future – of what might come if he truly seized the day and allowed himself to live as all the Marauders had – without inhibition. That was, after all, what made them true Marauders. That was how his younger self had lived.

He caught a flash of bubblegum pink hair, a brilliant smile, conversations that had made him feel happier than he had since . . . since their graduation from Hogwarts.

Remus's hand went to the ring that was always in his pocket, the ring that had belonged to his mother before she died and passed it down to him, and all of a sudden he was sprinting out of the castle.

Ten minutes later when he knocked on the door of an apartment in London, he was sopping wet from the rain and probably appeared insane, but he had the crazy Marauder gleam in his eyes, a rakish grin on his face, and he looked as though twenty years had simply melted away, like he was seventeen again.

In comparison, the young witch who opened the door looked as if she hadn't been sleeping, with dark circles under her eyes, a set to her mouth that suggested she hadn't smiled in a long time, and her normally bright hair an apathetic grey.

Her mouth fell open at the sight of Remus, however.

"Hey, Dora," he said with a grin, and the sight of it was so uncharacteristic in these times – so _charming_ – that Tonks unconsciously let color slowly seep back into her hair.

"I – Remus?" she asked incredulously, not daring to believe it. He had been avoiding her for a while now.

"That would be me," he agreed, and she closed her eyes in shock at his casual tone, wondering if she was dreaming. "I was just wondering, would you like to marry me?"

Her eyes flew open to find Remus kneeling before her, an old, beautiful ring held out to her. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly as she gaped at him. "I didn't have any firewhiskey tonight!" she protested. "Moody would have my head! And – and I hadn't gone to sleep yet – oh, Merlin, he'll kill me. I wasn't supposed to fall asleep tonight; _constant vigilance!" _

Remus stood easily, his grin broadening. "Well, I'm flattered you think I'm a dream," he said, "but should I be worrying for your sanity?"

Tonks gaped at him again. "You – I – but you're too old!" she protested, repeating his reason for not allowing himself to be in a relationship with her.

"I know," he sighed. "I'm a cradle-robber. Regular criminal."

Tonks felt her jaw drop even lower. What was happening? _Say yes, _an irritable voice in the back of her mind snapped at her. _Just bloody say it already, it's a miracle! _"Too dangerous," she blurted out instead, and proceeded to mentally hit herself.

"Well, we _are _in the middle of a war," he said reasonably. "I reckon I'm relatively safe in comparison to ol' Voldy." He _sounded _like he was seventeen again – James used to call him that. Merlin, what had that mirror done to him?

"Too poor!" Tonks said, before cursing her mouth out thoroughly.

"Can't argue with that," he admitted, "although I've got to say, while we're in a war it doesn't seem to matter. Molly takes care of us all at Headquarters. And after the war, which I plan on surviving, I'll be a war hero. I'm told they're quite rich."

"Not all of them!" Tonks argued, wondering why they seemed to have switched places in their usual argument.

"A very small number of them," he agreed, "which probably doesn't include me. I fail to see how this matters. It's not today; it's not tomorrow, so why bother worrying about it now? We don't even know if we'll get that far, although I'd like to."

At the horrified look she gave him, he added reasonably, "_Carpe diem_."

He didn't seem at all bothered by her lack of a response to his proposal. She'd never seen him quite so confident, so charming, so carefree – although she had caught flashes of the Marauder in him from the day she met him. It was what made her fall in love with him in the first place.

"Yes!" she said suddenly, mentally sighing in relief that her mouth had managed to find the right word. "Yeah, I'll marry you! Why wouldn't I?"

"Well," he said, ticking the reasons off on his fingers, "I'm too old, too poor, too dangerous –"

"Let's not do this again," Tonks sighed.

He grinned at her. "You did ask." Once again struck speechless, Tonks settled for throwing her arms around him and kissing him thoroughly. Whatever had gotten him to let go of his worries, she was unendingly grateful (if a little suspicious – having known Charlie, she was all too familiar with Gryffindor rashness, and it was never a good thing).

She pulled back, stepping back inside. He made to follow her, when she remembered her Auror training and pointed her wand at him. "What did Remus Lupin tell me when I asked him how he knew how to sneak into Hogwarts?"

"Dora," he said exasperatedly, "you've just agreed to marry me! Don't you think it's a little late to make sure I'm safe enough to invite into your home?"

She glared at him. "I said, 'I'm a Marauder,'" he answered, and she nodded and lowered her wand.

"Wait – what is your boggart?" he asked.

Her hair turned a bright, Weasley red. "A Hungarian Horntail," she muttered, glowering at him when he snickered. "You'd be afraid of dragons, too, if Charlie Weasley was your best mate growing up! You don't know what it's like, having a best mate that crazy."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Please," he said, "I had two."

And he stepped past her, still grinning to himself. Perhaps the Marauder in him hadn't died with the others after all.


	7. Albus Dumbledore

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter.**

* * *

**Albus Dumbledore, December 27****th****, 1991**

Albus waited for the boy to come to the Mirror again. He knew he would; they always did. The merest glimpse of one's greatest desire could leave men who had known more loss than most starving for a few more precious seconds with the enrapturing fantasy the Mirror provided.

After all, that was what it had done to him. He remembered seeing it for the first time; seeing a future in which he could avenge his little sister. Her magic had been crippled by the cruelty of those Muggle boys, and for what? Because they didn't realize that there were greater things in the world than themselves, and that his sister was in the possession of one of them?

His sweet, precious little sister who had never hurt anything in her life had been destroyed by a few naïve boys. That incident had permanently disillusioned him – he no longer viewed humanity with the idealistic innocence of a child. He wanted to reveal to the world the beauty in magic; prevent anything like what happened to his sister from happening to anyone else. That need quickly turned into a thirst for _vengeance. _

It made him furious, what had happened to his sister – and his father; for seeking retribution for her he had earned a lifetime in Azkaban – and the alluring future the mirror painted was one that sparked the first revolutionary ideas in his mind.

He remembered finally telling Gellert Grindelwald of the future he had envisioned, and Gellert was delighted – he had said that he saw the same things; that he too wished for such a future . . . they had broached the topic before, but had never actually imagined it as a concrete possibility. They began to fantasize a glorious new world, a Golden Age for wizards, where magic reigned free and Muggles knew who they were and what they had and respected them, even _envied _them . . . they pictured themselves leading the revolution, heralding the dawn of a new era to triumphant wizards worldwide. Two brilliant, exceptionally talented young men like them – how could they possibly fail? They would be hailed as heroes. Justice would be brought to their world by their hand.

But Albus began to neglect everything around him. He became less interested in speaking with those around him, even Gellert, and was consumed by the Mirror. And then one day, when Albus brushed past Gellert without even noticing him as the other boy tried to speak to Albus about something important, so intent was he on getting to the Mirror – Gellert grabbed him by the shoulder and shoved him against a wall, looking at him steadily.

_Albus was furious. "What are you playing at?" he yelled. How _dare_ Gellert dare keep him from the Mirror? He would see his future, be with his new, unencumbered Ariana, and Gellert had no right to stop him! _

_Gellert did not raise his voice. "This mirror – it's bad for you, Albus. It's slowly consuming you, taking over your life. You hardly eat anymore. You spend all your time in front of that mirror, rarely speak to other people, and you've lost sight of everything you used to hope and dream about." _

_"__I have not," Albus snarled. "What do you think I'm looking at in that mirror? Everything I – _we_ – hope and dream about. That mirror holds our future –"_

_"__How do you think that future is going to come about if you and I do nothing to bring it?" Gellert demanded. "It isn't real, Albus. It only shows you what is already in your head and heart. You need to stop looking for it." _

_Albus stared at him stubbornly, his blue eyes bright with defiance. _"Albus," _said Gellert, his gaze intent. "It isn't real." _

_"__I – one last time," Albus lied. _

_Gellert didn't blink. Albus was typically a master of secrecy and deceit – he had learned to lie from a masterful liar; his mother. But he did not particularly care if he was being obvious. He only needed to see the mirror again. _

_"__No," Gellert said firmly. "Nothing good will come of that mirror, Albus, and if you were in your right mind, you'd see that. That mirror will not feed you, nor will it make your dreams a reality. Only you can do that. Forget the mirror." _

_Albus frowned, processing his words, and all of a sudden a hazy kind of clarity struck him as he began to register what Gellert had been saying. His friend's gaze was still intent, and Albus felt his heart begin to beat faster at the other boy's proximity. _

_He froze, and his gaze must have sharpened because Gellert pulled back. "Have I – how long have I been like this?" Albus asked suddenly, noting how ravenous he felt. _

_"__Over a week," answered Gellert, his gaze lighting up with possibility – Albus was back. Their plans could be carried forth once more. Albus would not waste away, and they would bring rise to a brilliant age. _

_Albus paled. He felt a sense of loss, but he knew he would not allow himself to go back to that mirror. It was dangerous. _

_Gellert gave him a shrewd look. "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live," he said. _

A sudden noise caught his attention, and Albus watched as Harry slid to the floor in front of the mirror, his gaze never wavering. He was staring up at the mirror with a kind of obsessed adoration.

"So," sighed Albus. "Back again, Harry?"

The boy froze, slowly turning around. He seemed speechless for a moment before saying abruptly, "I didn't see you, sir."

Albus smiled. "Strange how nearsighted being invisible can make you," he mused. He felt his smile vanish, looking at Harry seriously. "So," he said again, "you, like hundreds before you, have discovered the delights of the Mirror of Erised."

"I didn't know it was called that sir," said Harry, but the name was irrelevant.

"But I expect you've realized by now what it does?" Albus prompted. Even he had figured it out when he first saw the mirror, foolish though he had been back then, and Harry was not stupid.

"It – well – it shows me my family –"

"And it showed your friend Ron himself as Head Boy."

Harry looked startled. "How did you know –?"

Albus held the boy's gaze. "I don't need a cloak to become invisible," he told Harry. "Now, can you think what the Mirror of Erised shows us all?"

Harry shook his head, and Albus had to remind himself that he was older when he found the mirror himself. "Let me explain. The happiest man on Earth would be able to use the Mirror of Erised like a normal mirror; that is, he would look into it and see himself exactly as he is. Does that help?"

Harry's brow furrowed slightly, and his eyes slowly lit up with realization. "It shows us what we want . . . whatever we want . . ."

"Yes and no," Albus said quietly. That was why the Mirror was so dangerous. "It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them standing around you. Ronald Weasley, who has always been overshadowed by his brothers, sees himself standing alone, the best of all of them. However, this mirror will give us neither knowledge nor truth. Men have wasted away before it, entranced by what they have seen, or been driven mad, not knowing if what it shows is real or even possible.

Albus studied the boy in front of him. He needed to do for Harry what Gellert had done for him – what, he suspected, Ron Weasley might have tried to do, though he may not have realized why it was imperative Harry did not return.

"The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry," Albus said gently, "and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared." He hesitated slightly before continuing. "It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed?"

Harry stood up. "Sir – Professor Dumbledore?" he asked suddenly. "Can I asked you something?"

"Obviously, you've just done so," Albus said, slightly amused. "You may ask me one more thing, however."

"What do you see when you look in the mirror?"

"I?" asked Albus. "I see myself holding a pair of thick, woolen socks."

Harry stared. "One can never have enough socks," Albus told the boy. "Another Christmas has come and gone and I didn't get a single pair. People will insist on giving me books."

Harry looked utterly baffled by this, but he was silent as he went back to his dormitory. After he was gone, Albus breathed out a heavy sigh and returned his gaze to the Mirror. He had not looked into it in quite a while.

The image there was the same – it was always the same, and had been since his mother's death and the duel that split him apart from everyone he loved. Gone were the idealistic dreams that had led Gellert, who was never an evil person, to become a Dark wizard almost as feared as Voldemort. Gone were the wishes for retribution and a new era. He saw instead his family, whole and intact, standing before him – much, he thought, like young Harry Potter.

Albus still loved his brother. The deaths of his parents and sister were like a constant ache in his chest. And what he hadn't been able to admit to himself for a long time was that he still missed Gellert. Many people spoke of him as the Dark wizard Grindelwald. They spoke of the legendary duel Albus had won against him nearly half a century ago, in 1945.

Contrary to popular belief, Gellert had never been like Tom Riddle. He had always been very wild, very scathing in his attitude towards rules or restrictions of any sort. He had also always been very passionate about his beliefs, and incredibly human. His morals, however malleable, _did _exist, thought they were tempered by the fire of his ambitions. He was as driven by his emotions as any other, and he had never had an innate propensity for cruelty.

Albus remembered the motto they had coined – "For the Greater Good." They had never been driven by negative intent.

Gellert was definitely manipulative. Albus had sometimes wondered whether Gellert had been aware of his unrequited affections and had used that to his advantage. Manipulation, however, Albus could forgive – he considered himself smart enough to know when he was being manipulated and he himself had always been a master in deceit. He could not bring himself to believe, however, even after it all, that Gellert was evil.

That day when Gellert attacked Albus's brother – that day had easily been the worst of Albus's life, for he lost not only one family member, but three.

Albus returned his gaze to the Mirror, staring at his sister's brilliant smile as she tossed her dark hair over her shoulder; she was grinning up at their father, who was smiling at her affectionately. His mother was looking at her children fondly and the younger version of Albus had one arm thrown around one brother, Aberforth, who was not looking at him with hate, and the other arm thrown around his other brother – Gellert Grindelwald.

The future he had first seen in the Mirror could not have been more wrong. Time was a curious thing.

With one last glance at the Mirror, Albus turned to leave. He knew better than to stay. After all, if there was one thing he remembered, it was that it did not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live.


	8. Fenrir Greyback

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter**

* * *

**Fenrir Greyback, January 1, 1968**

"Happy New Year," he growled softly.

Greyback felt his lips stretch wider, baring his teeth. He was in a back room of an old Hogsmeade building that was rarely ever used anymore, and he could hear voices. _Young _voices.

"I don't want to be here," whimpered a young boy.

An older voice, a girl this time, answered, "Don't be such a pansy! Why can't you ever be fun? All we're doing is exploring."

"Leave him alone," said a third voice harshly, another younger girl. "Just because he'd prefer to live long enough to attend Hogwarts."

Greyback felt a strange sense of pleasure run through him. The voices were coming closer. . .

"I wonder what this door leads to," said the older girl, and she yanked open the door and marched through. With a small noise of protest, the boy followed her with the last girl on his heels. "Whoa," said the older girl. "See if there's a light."

"There isn't a light," Greyback told them, and the three young children stiffened, turning to look at them. Immediately, the younger girl fumbled for the door, but it didn't have a handle on the inside. Once closed, it could only be opened from the outside.

Greyback stepped closer to them, feeling a laugh build up as he saw the panic on their faces. They were even younger than he had thought! The oldest, the girl, couldn't have been more than ten. "Who are you?" she asked, stepping slightly in front of the other two children.

How brave. Greyback could smell the fear coming off her in waves. He didn't answer her question, only allowing his lips to stretch further apart. "What would three young children such as yourselves be doing inside . . . on a day like this?"

Children everywhere were playing happily. They didn't have a care in the world. One of them had hit him with a snowball and wished him a Happy New Year. Looking closely, he realized it was the boy in front of him. He chuckled again when they didn't answer, and without warning, he lunged forward and sang his teeth into the girl's shoulder.

She screamed, beginning to struggle wildly, but he only tore off some of her shoulder and leaned back, chewing thoughtfully and smiling as blood started gushing everywhere all at once. The other two children had scrambled back as far as they could go and were looking positively terrified.

The girl stumbled back, crying madly. Surprisingly, even as she flinched when he took another step forward, she glared slightly and spat, "What sort of wizard are you?"

He grinned a bloody, mad grin. "Not a wizard, darlin'." And then he lunged again, gnawing furiously before tossing her dead body to the side. "Restraint," he said aloud, speaking to himself. "You're not supposed to be killing them."

"You can't be a werewolf. It's not full moon, and you're still human." It was the girl who had spoken. Greyback licked a trace of blood off his finger absently.

"Observant, aren't we?" He licked his lips. "Just because it's not full moon doesn't mean I'm not a werewolf."

"You're disgusting!" the boy said suddenly, before subsiding when Greyback glared at him. He glanced at the girl, then spoke up again. "You can't eat her! Or me! It's revolting."

"I've rather developed a taste for it, actually," Greyback informed them casually. "I wouldn't say it's revolting at all."

"Please . . . family . . ." the boy was crying.

The girl was much calmer. "You're trying to make us like you?" she asked for confirmation. She gave him a disgusted look. "Well. Oddly enough, I'd rather be filth than dead."

Greyback didn't waste any time on the girl. The boy was last. "Please," begged the boy, backing away. "I just want to be normal. I want to grow up."

Greyback killed that one. He _hated _snow.

He left the girl who was still alive, if gravely injured, in the room and left through the trap door in the ceiling. He'd come back for the girl eventually. Hauling himself up into the room, he went to check for more empty rooms. There was a promising looking storage cupboard to the left . . .

It was completely dark when he entered, and empty, it seemed. Like the other room, it was completely dark. Greyback turned to leave, but an odd flash of light at the back of the room caught his eye. There was another room connected to the back, and the light was glancing through a dusty window and bouncing off a mirror.

Snarling at the sudden light, Greyback backed out of the room – only to stiffen when he caught his reflection. The image in the mirror was not of himself. It was a boy with brown hair and blue eyes who seemed somewhat familiar . . .

Greyback felt an odd flash of memory and stiffened in surprise. He didn't remember much from _before_. . .

_A flash of pain as the glass cut into his cheek, and Fen crawled back, staggered to his feet, and ran away. _

_A moment later, his mother's arms were around him. "Love, I'm sorry about your father." She smoothed his hair down. "He had too much to drink at the New Year's celebrations, and you know what he's like. When you grow up, none of this will matter, Fen. Your name will be known by the world, and you'll be a better man than he ever was." _

_Fen couldn't manage a smile as he struggled to get up. He needed fresh air . . . stumbling through the door, he headed straight for the forest, letting the moonlight guide his path. It was bright and full, and it lent his surroundings an eerie, though beautiful sheen. _

_"__Happy New Year." Greyback spun around to find a man staring at him, smiling broadly. _

_"__What?" Fen asked shakily, staring at the man. Something about his reminded Fen of his father . . . _

_"__Perfect target," the man chuckled. "I can see it now – 'Innocent Young Boy Attacked by Werewolf; Werewolf Put Down.'"_

_Fen stepped back a few steps, and the man smiled maliciously again. Without forewarning, the man vanished, and Fen was left staring at the spot where he'd been in bewilderment, wondering where the man had—_

_There was a low growl from behind him. Fen tried spinning around to see what it was, but before he could do anything, he felt a piercing, sharp pain, and then everything went black._

* * *

_Fen woke up, as always, to screaming. _

_"__He's our son!" screamed Mother. _

_"__That _thing _is no son of mine!" snarled his father. "He's a monster, an abomination! He's an evil, soulless demon who should be put down immediately! He's a WEREWOLF!" _

_"__We don't know that for sure," pleaded Mother. _

_"__Please," scoffed his father in disgust._

_ "You heard the Healer as well as I did. With injuries like that, there is next to no chance he won't be a werewolf." _

_Fen struggled to sit up at that; he'd heard enough. "What happened?" he croaked out._

_His father threw a newspaper at him. The headlines read: WEREWOLF INFECTS BOY WITH LYCANTHROPY. "That's what happened, you useless, filthy dog. Out of my house, NOW!" _

_Mother stepped forward, but his father whirled and shoved her back, seething. "Get out." Fen stumbled off the bed, struggling to stay upright. _

_He opened his mouth to speak, but there was a dangerous glint in his father's eye. "OUT!" he roared, and Fen fell to the floor, scrambling to leave. He crawled out the door on his hands and knees before trying to stand again, and when he got to the forest, he collapsed in a heap and fainted._

* * *

_The woman showed him the only kindness he had had in a month. "My son was bitten," she told him. "Love, do you want to hurt people?" _

_"__No," answered Fen, thinking of his father. _You'll be a better man than he ever was.

_"__Then go someplace you won't escape," said the woman. "You will have an insatiable thirst for blood on the full moon, and if you aren't careful, you will do the same thing to someone else that the werewolf who bit you did to you." _

_Fen nodded. "Okay." _

_"__You'll have to be strong," the woman warned. "You can't be weak. You must persevere. You have a hard life ahead of you, love." _

_He had had a hard life behind him, too. _

_"__Okay," he said again, and then he left._

* * *

_He woke up the two days after the full moon, passed out and bleeding. The pain was awful – there were humans just outside, and yet all he could do was claw at himself . . . the pain had made him lose his mind. He could not do that again. He couldn't. _

_He felt helpless. He was not strong. He was weak. _

You'll be a better man than he ever was.

I won't.

* * *

_His second full moon . . . the wolf caught the scent of humans and growled in a low voice, tearing at its flesh—but then it noticed: the latch had been left slightly open. _

_A young couple was killed that night._

* * *

_It had been two long years of struggling to survive on the streets. Fenrir _hated _wizards. He hated his father, he hated the man who had tricked the werewolf into biting him, and he hated the moon. _

_It took him a week, but he finally made his decision. He began traveling north again, to the place he had been trying to escape for a very long time. _

_Only one man died that full moon. The body was nearly unrecognizable, and there was no trace of family – the wife was long gone – but the Ministry official thought the name on the old business card in a dusty trashcan said _Greyback_. _

_Fenrir loved the moon. It had given him revenge._

* * *

_Fenrir knew he was slowly losing his mind. He was so lonely . . . he needed a pack._

* * *

_Greyback hated wizards. The words of the wizard at the trial—Lyall Lupin?—had sparked something inside of him. The word _werewolf _ had rolled off his tongue with such disgust; the conviction in his words when describing him—"soulless, evil, deserving of nothing but death." _

He's an evil, soulless demon who should be put down immediately.

_The man needed to pay . . . he had a son, just about to turn five, very gifted with magic, very mischievous, very bright and full of life—Remus Lupin, was it? _

_Yes. The man would pay. _

_That night, a man and woman cried over the loss of their son's bright future._

* * *

Greyback stared at the mirror for a moment, catching a flicker of something almost unrecognizable in him after so long—humanity? Then it was gone, and he turned his back on the mirror with a snarl, before leaving the building and Hogsmeade itself, forgetting about the girl.

That night, in a dark alley on the bad side of a city, two orphaned and homeless kids sat huddled together, backs pressed against the brick wall.

One night later, one was dead and the other was in unimaginable pain, howling at the full moon.

Amidst the mindless haze, the last words whispered the night that had decided this fate were the only things the werewolf did not forget:

_Happy New Year. _


End file.
